Bloodstone (46 page)

“You’re as stubborn as a bullock,” Bep said.

That was another difference between the two little men: Bo’s voice was soft and lilting, Bep’s as musical as two stones grating together.

“Just couldn’t keep out of it, could you?”

“I don’t like bullies.”

“As if you’ve ever had to put up with them.”

“It was wrong.”

Bep laughed, a deep bellow that sounded surprisingly friendly. “Right or wrong’s got nothing to do with it. This is the world, Wild Man.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

“Stubborn as a bullock,” Bep mused. “And stupid as a sheep. Wait. I’m not through insulting you yet.”

“Well, I’m through listening.”

“Touchy, aren’t we?”

“Don’t think because you’re shorter, I won’t knock you on your arse.”

“The same arse you were so eager to save these last two nights.”

“It wasn’t your arse I was worried about.”

“Nay. It was the principle of the thing.”

Darak opened his mouth and shut it. Finally, he said, “I’m not always so self-righteous.”

“Thank the Maker for small blessings.”

“It’s true, then? You’re a child of the Oak and Holly?”

Bep’s mouth twisted. “I’m nobody’s child, Wild Man. And nobody’s friend either.”

“Nay, of course not. The man who offers you friendship gets a bruised cheek and sore ballocks.”

For a moment, he thought Bep would strike him. Then his face relaxed. “At least you had the sense to make a game of it this time.”

“So maybe I’m not as stupid as a sheep. Why . . . ?” He hesitated, then plunged ahead. “Why do you let them treat you that way?”

“Good gods, man. Isn’t it obvious? Because they’re too big and too many to fight.” Bep shook his head, disgusted. “I spent my youth trying to prove myself with my fists. Now I play the fool. Instead of a beating, I earn laughter and coins. And women. Oh, aye, there’s always one or two want to see what the little man’s made of. And they find out quick enough that I’m a big man where it counts. I’ve got one waiting for me now. A farmer’s wife whose husband’s off to Pilozhat and left her to care for the fields. Tonight I’ll be the one doing the plowing.”

“I see.”

“Do you, Wild Man? Can you imagine what it’s like to have your face pillowed between two soft breasts and your cock buried between two strong thighs?”

“Have a care you don’t suffocate,” Darak said shortly.

Bep laughed. “Skittish as a virgin, aren’t you? Naught but blushes and lowered eyes.”

“I’m not blushing,” he said, furious because he was.

“Are you so skittish with your wife?”

“Nay. And it’s none of your concern if I am.” He rose.

“I told you why I play the fool,” Bep said. “Suppose you tell me why you play the Wild Man for Olinio.”

“It’s not for him.”

“Who, then?”

“Again, that’s none of your concern.”

“True. But I can’t help wondering why the great Darak Spirit-Hunter should join a troupe of traveling players.”

Darak froze. The players knew him as Reinek. He’d taken his father’s name as a precaution, although both he and Urkiat thought it unlikely that anyone in Zheros had heard of Darak Spirit-Hunter. But a child of the Oak and Holly would know the tale. Even one as far from home as Bep.

“Could be he got bored in that little village of his,” Bep speculated. “Wanted another adventure. But the Wild Man of the North? That’s a bit lower than I’d expect him to go. So I ask myself, ‘Why would the Spirit-Hunter be in Zheros? And in such a tearing hurry to get to Pilozhat?’ ”

He’d never said anything about wanting to go to Pilozhat. But Bep could have seen him scanning the horizon, could have overheard him asking Olinio how many days before they reached the holy city. Who’d have guessed such innocuous behavior could betray him?

Unless Urkiat had let it slip.

A satisfied smile lit Bep’s craggy features. “I start to wonder if maybe the Spirit-Hunter is on another quest. Last time, he went looking for his brother. Maybe this time, it’s his wife. She’d be a bit old for the pleasure houses, though. So maybe it’s not his wife he’s looking for, but his daughter. Or his son.”

“What do you want?”

“Perhaps I’m just curious.”

“Perhaps.”

“Or perhaps I mean to betray you to the priests in Pilozhat. They might consider the Spirit-Hunter a valuable hostage.”

“They might.”

“Or perhaps I’m doing you the favor of warning you.”

“About the priests?”

“About the world, my innocent Wild Man. Coins loosen tongues and scruples alike. Right or wrong matters less than turning a profit. Your height, your hands, your manner . . . they all make you stand out. That’s a good thing when you’re just a silly player. But not so good when you’ve got something to hide. So take the advice of a fool: watch your back, keep your dagger close, and play the Wild Man. He’ll survive a lot longer in Zheros than Darak Spirit-Hunter will.”

It would be easy enough to take him. Leave his body in the field. Blame his death on thieves or drunks or a jealous suitor. Instead, Darak watched Bep cross the field and disappear into one of the whitewashed houses.

“Wolf?” he whispered. “Can you hear me?”

He had to wait a long while for her to appear and when she did, she was as insubstantial as mist, the stalks of millet clearly visible through her body. But her tail still wagged in greeting as she padded over and lay down beside him.

“Is it too hard for you?” he asked. “I won’t call you again if it is.”

“It is hard, Little Brother. But good to share the night with you.”

When he told her about his encounter with Bep, she surprised him by saying, “His warning was wise. And his behavior that of any pack leader seeking to demonstrate his dominance to a newcomer.”

“But he’s not the pack leader.”

As he described Olinio, her head came up. “That one is weak. The small one is strong. That is why he tests you. To decide whether to accept you or chase you off.” She whined softly. “Or kill you. That often happens to a lone wolf seeking a new pack.”

“But I’m not alone. And I’m not seeking a new pack. I have you and Urkiat.”

“Then tell the young one to be cautious. To watch for any signs of aggression.” She lowered her head onto her paws again. “I am sorry I cannot help you, Little Brother.”

“But you already have, Wolf.”

He stared up at the sky and watched the stars appear. There was the Archer, pointing the way home. And there, the Boar’s Tusk, pointing the way to Pilozhat. The road to the holy city was as straight as a spear, but the path to Keirith was full of pitfalls.

“Close your eyes, Little Brother. I will keep watch.”

As she stretched and rose, he lay down on the warm earth. His fears would still be waiting in the morning. He would face them then. Tonight, he had Wolf. Tonight, at least, he was safe.

T
HE PALACE WAS UNUSUALLY quiet on the day of The Shedding; everyone was expected to spend the morning in contemplation and prayer. Only when the king and queen emerged from seclusion at midday did the celebrations begin. So Keirith had little to do but sit in his room, contemplate the floor, and pray that he was ready for Xevhan’s entertainment. Malaq would be busy all day, but they had already discussed how he should behave tonight; it was only a matter of waiting for the interminable day to end.

He flinched when he heard the distant blare of horns; he always associated the sound with death. But when the two guards loitering outside sketched spirals on their chests, he guessed the rite must be over.

As the afternoon wore on, he grew more restless. Finally, he walked to the doorway and suggested a game of dice. The younger guard brightened, but the older one shook his head. “Wouldn’t be proper.”

“But the praying is done, yes? And this is a day of happiness for your people. And if I just sit here, counting stones in the floor, I think I scream. So dice is good for all of us.”

After a moment, the older guard nodded. The younger one raced off and returned with a leather cup and wooden dice. He plopped down on the floor and rattled the cup invitingly. The older one settled himself with a grunt.

The afternoon passed pleasantly enough after that. They played for beans, but the young guard was as excited as if they were coins. His name was Ysal. He’d grown up in Pilozhat. His father had served in the palace guard before him. He had three sisters and two brothers. One brother was in the army and was certain to go far. The younger one—the clever one—was apprenticed to a metalworker. His sisters were all unmarried, but one was betrothed to the same craftsman who had taken on his brother as an apprentice. He was old—thirty at least—but very respectable and had offered an excellent bride price for his sister, who was no great beauty although she was the sweetest girl in the world. Another had her eyes on the son of a tanner, although how she could put up with the stink was more than he could imagine. He had served in the guards for three years and it was good, steady work, and he hoped to put enough money by so that when he was old, he could buy a house of his own and marry a rich wife and buy a pretty slave girl.

The older guard’s name was Luzik.

It was the first time he’d really talked with a Zheroso other than Malaq. He couldn’t help liking Ysal. He seemed so . . . ordinary. He loved his family. He dreamed of his future. He celebrated his people’s festivals. Just like a child of the Oak and Holly.

“Tell me about The Shedding. I know little about the rite. It honors the adders who shed their skins, yes?”

Ysal nodded. “All night, the priests keep vigil in the temples. Save for the Pajhit—he stays with the king. And the Motixa is with the queen. They keep vigil, too. At dawn, the Qepo milks the adders. Everyone has to pray and fast until the king and queen Shed.”

Ysal grimaced; clearly, neither praying nor fasting appealed to him.

“At midday,” he continued, “the king and queen go to the throne room to greet the people. Well, the important people. Just for a few moments, though. Shedding their skins is very tiring. But everyone else celebrates. The parties go on all night. Dancing, singing. And the food . . .” He smacked his lips in anticipation.

“Shedding their skins? Their clothes, you mean.” Keirith felt the heat rise into his face as he imagined the queen standing naked in the throne room.

“Not their clothes. Their skin. Their flesh.”

“But . . . I do not understand.”

Luzik blew out his breath in exasperation. “They go into seclusion with one set of bodies and come out with new ones.”

“Whose bodies?”

“The Hosts.”

“The most beautiful man and woman in the kingdom,” Ysal added. He tossed the dice, exclaiming with dismay when a frog and an eagle came up. “My cousin was almost chosen last year. She made it all the way to the presentation. But the queen chose another girl.” His downcast expression brightened. “But it was still an honor. And it got her a rich husband. A merchant from—”

“The king and queen take the bodies of the Hosts?”

Luzik scowled. “That’s what we’ve been telling you.” He rolled two eagles and grunted with satisfaction.

Numb with horror, Keirith could only stare at them. The beautiful queen who had spoken so kindly to him cast out the spirit of another and took the body for herself. Just as Morgath had done with Grain-Mother Yeorna.

“And afterward?” he managed. “What happens to . . . to the Hosts?”

Both guards made the sign of the spiral. “Their spirits fly to Paradise,” Ysal said, “where they live among the green hills and the flowing rivers. They’re honored above all mortal men and women. It’s your turn, Kheridh.”

Yeorna’s spirit didn’t fly to the Forever Isles; it was cast into Chaos. He remembered the sickly king, lolling on his throne. Now he possessed the body of a beautiful young man. He was strong again and revitalized. Until next year when it happened all over again. No wonder Malaq had brushed aside his questions about The Shedding.

“Roll the dice,” Ysal urged. “You need two serpents to beat Luzik.”

Keirith strode to the doorway.

“Where are you going?” Luzik demanded.

“The kitchen.”

“But what about the game?” Ysal called plaintively.